


The Better Part of 33 Minutes

by SomewhereApart



Category: Battlestar Galactica
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 05:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1970631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It’s just another way to stay awake</i>, she tells him, and they’re just looped enough with exhaustion to believe it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Better Part of 33 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Major thanks to [](http://callmeonetrack.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://callmeonetrack.livejournal.com/)**callmeonetrack** for the beta. You've all been saved from the run-on sentences of doom.

_It’s just another way to stay awake_ , she tells him, and they’re just looped enough with exhaustion to believe it, so Lee presses his mouth back to hers and fumbles with the zipper of her flight suit. His weight is heavy against her, pressing her back into the briefing podium, and she’s pretty sure it has more to do with his inability to hold himself upright for another 33 minutes than it does with a desire to feel her body against his. She’s not faring much better; her head spins every time she closes her eyes, so she keeps them open, but she has to slant them to the side and focus on his shoulder to keep from going cross-eyed at his close proximity. Her fingers are leaden and sweaty, slipping off his zipper more than once as she tugs his flight suit down the rest of the way, pushes the material down to his ankles around the time he manages the same for her.

His skin is tacky under her palms, and he smells of stale sweat and sour breath, but so does she, so she puts it out of her mind, turns her attention to the logistics of this because it goes without saying that pulling their boots off and then back on will waste precious time they don’t have and frakking could prove challenging with both their ankles tangled. Her brain is sluggishly working through possible positions while her body goes on autopilot (frakking is easy as breathing once you get the hang of it), her mouth sucking at the scratchy, salty skin of his neck as his fingers grope clumsily between her thighs.

She hums at the pleasure and works her own hands into his briefs, pulling him out and pumping him slowly. She’d be offended that he’s only at half mast if she could form proper thoughts, but at this point she thinks it’s a miracle they’re both still standing, so if he needs a little extra coaxing, she’s not going to hold it against him. And besides, it doesn’t take him long to harden in her hand – only about as long as it takes her to drop her head back on a low moan when he twists two fingers under her briefs and into her.

He thumbs her clit and curves his fingers, and the sharp edge of pleasure actually focuses her enough that her brain starts working again – just a little bit. Kara arches against his hand, breathes his name, swirls her thumb over the head of his cock once, twice, a third time to make him groan. Neither of them is at their best, she knows, but she thinks (hopes?) they’re both doing a bang-up job, despite the entire lack of finesse and showmanship that she’s sure they’d manage if they weren’t so bone-tired.

She’s supposed to be thinking of something… She can’t remember what, something her brain is supposed to be working on… And then his fingers are gone and she’s growling her irritation until he shoves her briefs down to her knees and tugs at her arm.

“Turn around,” he mutters, his voice hoarse from overuse and lack of sleep. She stares at him dumbly for a second, until he adds, “It’ll be easier that way?”

It is, she realizes, then she remembers what she couldn’t remember. Positions – that’s what it was. She was supposed to be thinking of positions. Apparently Lee’s brain runs better on fumes than hers, because he’s managed to figure out what she couldn’t even recall, and as she shuffles herself to face the other direction, she thinks that maybe that’s why he’s the CAG. Or maybe that’s just because he’s Lee. She plants her forearms on the podium, leans forward just a little and grinds her hips back against him, and he’s fumbling again trying to position himself. Her wobbly gaze falls on the clock – they’re down to eleven minutes – then settles unseeing on the empty rows of chairs in front of her. The edges of the seats blur a little, and then she feels him pushing into her and moans. Kara arches back, bites her lip, drags one of his hands to the sweat-damp fabric of her bra (she's not sure when she lost her tanks) and he cups, squeezes, thrusts into her again harder, deeper.

She feels disconnected from her body, cottony and insubstantial even now, and she has a brief moment of vertigo that leaves her feeling so disoriented that for a second she doesn’t know who she’s with or where she is. That’s when she decides she can’t stand still any longer, and she needs to see his face while they do this. She reaches back blindly, murmurs for him to stop and he does.

A little flush of warmth spreads through her when he presses his lips to her shoulder, splays his fingers on her belly and asks, “You okay?” Same old Lee.

“Yeah,” she rasps, giving him a little shove and he pulls out, steps back. “Just can’t keep standing.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “I could sit.” And then she’s turning again, and tripping over the flight suits tangled at their feet, and giggling. And then he’s giggling, and trying to help her and somehow they end upon the floor in stitches, underwear around their thighs, suits tangled hopelessly, and Kara tries desperately not to laugh hard enough to draw attention from anyone in the hall because she knows they didn’t dog the hatch and she doesn’t particularly want an audience right now.

Somehow, despite the fact that she’s laughing so much her sides hurt and Lee’s so far gone he has tears on his cheeks, they manage to get him sitting, and her straddling him. It’s awkward with her feet still caught in her flight suit and her briefs back up, but his hands are on her hips, and hers are between them tugging her underwear to the side and guiding him into her.

She swoops down hard, buries him deep, and both of them groan. She watches his head drop back, follows his Adam’s apple as it bobs, and thinks this is _much_ better. Random fraks are just fine when the time is right, but this isn’t a random frak, it’s Lee. And maybe they’re using the cylons as an excuse to finally do this guilt-free (they blamed the first time on grief and Picon whiskey and vowed never to speak of it again), but she doesn’t want to miss a minute of it.

Their laughter dies down to the occasional chuckle as Kara braces a hand on his shoulder and pushes up, then settles back down. It’s awkward (she’s still holding her briefs to the side, mindful of rough elastic against tender skin), and her balance is off a little. She tries again and he tightens his grip on her hips, smiles and assures her, “I got it.” She snickers against his mouth even as she nods and kisses him and lets him use those strong, well-muscled (not that she’s been gaping at them, not at all...) arms to guide her up and down in a steady rhythm.

They kiss sloppily, all tongue and heat and clumsiness, but it’s _good_. He’s thick like Zak, but not as long ( _don’t think about Zak, don’t compare, think about_ anything _else, Kara…_ ), so she grinds down hard every time until it feels just right. When she slides her free hand down between them to rub at her clit, kissing becomes even more of a challenge so she gives up entirely and sits back a little, watches him as he watches her. His eyes are on her furiously working fingers, and he guides her hips faster, harder, groans and bites his lip, and hisses, “Gods, Kara, that’s so… keep touching yourself.”

The sound of his voice, his bruising fingers sinking into her hips, and the heat in his eyes as he’s watching her all combine to make Kara feel sexy and reckless and _alive_ and _awake_. She thinks, finally, _this_ is why they’re doing this. This rush of energy, of focus, so she ignores the ache of cramped fingers to tug her underwear a little further and give him a better view, then squeezes her clit lightly and moans urgently – close now, suddenly, so close.

“Kara…”

“ _Lee._ ”

“Pull up your – _Gods_ \-- I wanna see – _unh, yeah_ -”

She knows what he wants, but she’s almost there, so she cranes her neck to see the clock. Four minutes. Frak. She stops touching herself long enough to yank her bra up under her armpits, and Lee moans and dips in suddenly until he can bite and suck at her nipples and _gods, that’ll do it_ , she thinks, slithering her hand back between them and rubbing hard. And then she’s flying, dizzy, the room spinning around her as she squeezes around him and cries out.

She’s shaking with pleasure and he moves her faster, faster, harder, and she thinks she might come again (might never stop), and then he presses his face to her collarbone and groans, his hips bucking up as she drives herself down hard against him.

Her thighs are still twitching with exertion and pleasure, her breath and his coming in quick, heavy pants, when she looks to the clock again. “Two minutes.”

“Frak.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Mm. That was—”

“A good way to spend the better part of thirty-three minutes,” she interrupts, just in case he’s getting any ideas about this leading to more. And he must have been, because he falters a little, then smiles tightly at her and nods, fingers sliding her bra down to cover her breasts again before he kisses her one last time.

“We don’t have much time.”

They spend thirty seconds sorting out their twisted flight suits, another thirty yanking them on (thirty-five for Kara, who has to wrestle her boots free of her suit legs), and then they’re running full speed toward the hangar deck in order to make time. It’s autopilot then: climbing into the cockpit, helmet on, canopy back, into the tubes, out into space. Kara’s adrenaline doesn’t dip until she’s floating in the black, loose-limbed and well-frakked. Lee’s voice is tinny but self-assured over the comms as he announces, “And one minute to mark.”

Suddenly, she’s endorphin-mellowed and sleepy, her eyes drooping. She shakes herself out, works her jaw, runs her tongue across her lips and tastes Lee, and prepares for dogfight #237.


End file.
